something stupid (like i love you)
by Anastasia-G
Summary: She became, almost imperceptibly, a fixture in his daily life, as natural as the change in seasons. (Klaus is quite satisfied with Bonnie's role as his witch, until he isn't). AU after TVD S3
1. Chapter 1

_The time is right_  
 _Your perfume fills my head,_  
 _The stars get red_  
 _And oh the night's so blue._  
 _And then I go and spoil it all,_  
 _By saying something stupid_  
 _Like "I love you"._

 _\- Frank and Nancy Sinatra_

* * *

Bonnie Bennett, he'd learned, is as talented at dissemblance as she is magic.

The witch who'd turned up in New Orleans with a suitcase, a Grimoire and haunted eyes to take him up on the offer he'd made to be employed as his witch (most gainfully, he'd promised her) was a far cry from the fiery young girl who'd almost killed herself and him too.

But as the months slipped by and they settled into a semblance of routine (or as much of a routine as can be expected in a city seething with supernatural disputes ) he realized that while she was now privy to much of his life, he still had little to no idea about hers or what had prompted her to finally leave behind the deadweight she called friends and a hometown.

Oh, he had his guesses. And what's more, he had eyes and ears everywhere. One phone-call and he could know all he desired. But he held off at first, supremely confident that, whether by tears or rage, she would let something slip. After all, she'd worn her heart freely enough on her sleeve when he'd first encountered her in Mystic Falls.

But here in New Orleans she made no bombastic claims to morality or power. She let him know, quietly but firmly, what she would and would not do, and he'd agreed to those terms without complaint. Having a Bennett witch in one's corner was well worth the price.

Besides, he didn't need her to get her hands bloody. His were crimsoned enough from the centuries, a spot or two more hardly made a difference. The rest - locator spells, barrier spells, antidotes and narcotics, the occasional hex - she carried out beautifully.

And the more time he spent in her presence, the less he wanted to learn about her recent past from a third party. He watched her sometimes on those rare occasions she took her evening tea in the living room, her small frame folded catlike into the Edwardian chair she favored, turning the pages of a new book, chewing her lip in concentration, and felt himself burn with a curiosity that was increasingly difficult to assuage.

One of these days, he assured himself as the weeks lengthened, he'd see behind that veneer of quiet calm. In the meantime, fending off old enemies and new contenders kept him busy enough. She became, almost imperceptibly, a fixture in his daily life, as natural as the change in seasons.

A year and a half passed in this way until, one morning, quite without meaning to, he glimpsed her smiling.

She'd come down for breakfast and found a plateful of scones from the bakery around the corner (Elijah's doing. His older brother had almost as bad a sweet tooth as the witch) and the smile that dawned on her face lingered longer and brighter than any he remembered. It was rather like the curtains being drawn, unexpectedly, from a bright window. You'd almost forgotten what the sun could do.

Soon after, he began noticing other things.

When once she would spend her free time sequestered in her room, she now went out in the city for hours at a time, often returning with a shopping bag or two. Her clothing changed. She traded the dark, shapeless tunics and jeans she'd worn like a uniform for light colors and swirling skirts. They were not expensive clothes ( even though she was paid handsomely enough to frequent the same shops as Rebekah did) but whimsical and bohemian items such as one might find at a flea market or a consignment store.

She even took to socializing with him and his siblings, on occasion. She would sip a glass of sherry or white wine and listen intently while Elijah talked about some ancient manuscript, or chat with Rebekah about life in the city.

She still made no allusions to Mystic Falls, and he did not ask. What had once been a piquant curiosity had burgeoned into a kind of dull ache, a moody demand not just to know but _for_ _her to tell him_. He knew where she went in the city, when she returned, when she went to sleep, when she awoke. He knew what spells she excelled at and which ones she still needed to practice. He knew she liked her tea with heaping spoonfuls of honey. He knew what scents she preferred ( orange blossom, mostly, but lavender seasonally) and which scones were her favorite. He knew how to spot the early signs of her magic being overextended, how to reach out and steady her before the nosebleeds began. He even knew, sometimes, how to make her smile.

But what kept her awake at night, what drove her to write so copiously in her small journal, what tears she hid from him behind closed doors - he felt unreasonably possessive of those tears and hankered to know what caused them - she would not say.

There were moments, like some evenings listening to the gramophone and talking with him about a piece of music he'd chosen or when, light-headed from a spell, she would lean into him with a look of quiet gratitude, that he felt she would finally drop her guard.

(And he wanted her to tell him. Anything. Everything)

One night walking back from the Quarter having dealt with a particularly vicious coven he informs her, almost casually, that she will always be safe with him.

"I know," she replies, startling him. "You're practical, you lead with your head instead of your heart. And you've never been anything but honest about what you need from me. It's a nice change."

"Oh?"

"From Stefan and Damon."

"Not difficult to be a cut above swine, love."

She laughs a little and moves closer to him on the sidewalk to avoid a staggering drunk. Something about her words sit uneasily with him. He wants to reiterate that for as long as she remains in his city he will see to her safety, without pretense or preamble, in a way that the Salvatores had never even managed for the doppelganger they claimed to love. But that brings up the unpleasant thought of her someday leaving New Orleans and taking her smiles and tears with her, far away where he cannot protect or claim them.

And besides, it would be a lie. He is swiftly growing less and less practical when it comes to her.

"I like our arrangement," she adds. "I work for you and you take care of work-related hazards. It's simple and straightforward. Business-like. I...appreciate that about you, Klaus."

She's smiling at him, quite brightly, and he wants to tear into something, feel the snap of bone between his teeth.

Klaus bids her goodnight at the door to the Mikaelson home, answering her quizzical look with a hard grin and a comment about catching a late supper. She takes his meaning and asks no questions.

"Don't get hexed," she says before slipping quietly inside his house. He waits until the light fills her bedroom window to melt back into the city.

* * *

The protection spell, she informs him, is nearly foolproof. Her finger goes down the page of ingredients, writing each one in a small notebook. He lounges next to her on the settee, arm thrown across the back, legs crossed at the ankle. If she moved just so, she would tuck nicely into his side.

Bent over in her writing, the loose peasant blouse offers a tantalizing glimpse of her bra. His eyes linger on the spray of lavender lace on brown skin, wondering when she bought that particular item. The lace appears delicate and fine, handmade if he had to guess. That she would indulge herself in this discreet manner makes perfect sense. He tries, and fails, to restrain his imagination.

"So I can get most of these pretty easily, but the alligator egg and coral snake venom need to be fresh."

"Hmm..."

How many matching sets of exquisite lace did she have? And did she wear them to bed? Did she wear _anything_ to bed? The thought of a dark bead of nipple poking through the dainty filigree sends his head _spiraling._

"So you'll get the stuff?"

It takes a herculean effort to command his thoughts.

"Yes," he says roughly. "Whatever you need."

"Umm, okay. Cool, thanks." She smiles again that bright, blinding smile and hurries off to do whatever she did in the afternoons.

It takes him three hours of wading through the swamp to procure the ingredients. He leaves his shoes at the door and takes the bounty to her room. Rebekah wrinkles her nose in disgust as he walks by, earning her a deathly glare.

Bonnie had asked for a room on the eastern wing, far away from his and his sibling's quarters. It had seemed a reasonable enough request at the time, now it's another thorn twisting in his side, another veil she hid behind.

"Just a second!" she calls from inside the room. He smells steam and orange-blossom soap, they cut through the odor of mud and muck clinging to him. Sod being business-like, he wanted to walk in there and gather her naked body against his until the water makes him as clean and sweet smelling as her. Until there were no more secrets between them.

She appears in a very pretty blue silk robe, her hair pinned messily, skin glowing from the shower. She eyes the muddy box in his hand.

"You got it? Nice."

"That is hardly the word I would use for trudging through the swamp."

She glances at his feet. "What happened to your shoes?"

"I plan to burn them."

"Oh damn. Well, once I do this spell you won't need another one like it for a good ten years." She plucks a beetle from his shoulder. "And look: this little guy came home with you."

Klaus has half a mind to crush his hand over hers, beetle be damned. But she's already placing the small creature on the railing, watching it scuttle away with a contented little smile.

"I'll get dressed and then we'll do the spell."

He half-grunts a response, still intoxicated with her closeness, as she sails back inside her room.

This was his doing, he was the one who'd offered her this position in his household, who'd agreed to these careful, damnable boundaries that, even as he chafed against them, apparently made her happy.

As Elijah is often fond of reminding him, he has no one to blame but himself.

* * *

"Bekah? Are you down here?"

Bonnie wanders into the dining room holding two dresses. "I'm gonna be late if I -,"

Klaus raises an eyebrow.

She stops in her tracks, looks almost embarrassed. "You haven't seen your sister have you? I - umm, I need her to help me decide."

"And what are we deciding between?"

Her look of embarrassment deepens. He could swear she's _blushing._

"I do have _some_ knowledge of color and form," he informs her airily.

"Okay well," she hesitates before holding up the two garments. One is a rose-pink cocktail dress with a teal belt, the other a midnight-blue sheath with an open back. She gives a self-deprecating laugh, "I have a date tonight and, well, it's been a while so I have no idea what to wear."

His first thought is to ask his name and ensure the morning papers have a new obituary. His second thought is that neither dress will do, because she will no doubt look fetching in both. Perhaps he could suggest a large sack with a hole for each limb.

"And where, pray tell, is the bloke taking you?" he inquires, casually.

She shrugs. "Not sure. I'm meeting him in the Quarter and then we're gonna decide."

He pictures her arm in arm with some sod, laughing, tilting her face up for a kiss. Surely she wouldn't bring someone home after one date? She's never struck him as particularly impulsive.

But then, this is a new city, a new life, a Bonnie who drinks wine with the Mikaelsons and secrets a lavish collection of lingerie. And this Bonnie might let someone take her to bed soon after meeting them, let them join her in the shower, even fall in love. (Whatever else has changed about her, of this one thing he remains certain: she is someone who loves deeply, with her whole heart.) The thought of her cooking breakfast for some human after a shared night together makes him feel ill.

"Klaus?"

"The pink one," he proffers in a gruff voice.

Bonnie regards him with some surprise. "Thanks-,"

"Don't listen to a thing he says, darling. The last time _he_ had a date was sometime before the industrial revolution." Rebekah floats in decked with shopping bags that she flings unceremoniously at him. "Wear the delightful blue number. It'll look lovely on someone's bedroom floor."

Bonnie laughs, ducking her head. "We're just having dinner. But if you think this one's better-,"

"You'll look _ravishing_. Now go along and get dressed."

"Thanks, Bex. You too, Klaus."

As soon as the witch disappears upstairs, Rebekah whirls on him.

"Don't think I don't know know what you're doing."

He tosses off the shiny Prada and Valentino bags, not a little annoyed. "I have no idea what you mean, sister. She asked for my opinion, I gave it."

Rebekah folds her arms. "You fancy her."

"What a _ridiculous_ notion, I am-,"

"Oh cut the dramatics Nik, I'd know that gormless look on your face a mile away. You fancy her something awful."

Their eyes lock in a silent battle of wills. His jaw clicks. "Even if I did, it would be none of your concern."

She narrows her eyes. "Bonnie might be under your employ, but she's become a friend to me. And I won't see her made a mess of by your attentions-,"

"So _that's_ it. Bekah has a new toy - oh, pardon me, _friend_ \- and doesn't want to share. If I were to make more claims on Bonnie's time there'd be no one to listen to your endless prattle." He sneers, flinging the ugly words like mud, goading her. Some days, it's the only way he knew how to talk to his sister.

But Rebekah only looks tired. "I may not be a saint, but I'm encouraging her to try new things and live her life a little. _You_ would keep her all to yourself, cut her off from the world before she even has a chance to see it -,"

"That is not-,"

"If you care about her at all, then leave her be. She's had her heart broken enough, Nik."

He makes his way to the bar, feeling a black mood descend. "She told you this, did she?"

Rebekah follows him, kicking off her heels. "Not in so many words. But if I had to guess, I'd say Gilbert Jr left the poor thing high and dry."

So, his suspicions about the Gilbert family's role in her leaving Mystic Falls prove correct. Has there ever existed a more wet-behind-the-ears weasel like Jeremiah bloody Gilbert? And the boy fancied himself an artist to boot.

Impaling him on his own easel is starting to sound like a wonderful weekend excursion. To think he had dared to-

"See you guys later!"

Klaus glimpses her in the doorway, bright and lovely in a green dress she'd obviously chosen over his and Rebekah's suggestions. She waves at him. She looks, quite simply, like spring.

She is happy here, he realizes. In this city, under his roof, she looks happier than he can ever recall. Clinging to this cold comfort, he returns her smile. When the door closes behind her he makes no move to follow.

There's a clink of ice and glass. Rebekah claps a hand on his shoulder and hands him a drink.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Oh nooo, unrequited!Klonnie :( This was supposed to be a short and dirty drabble about Klaus looking down Bonnie's shirt but instead I've gone and caught FEELINGS. I blame Chelle for encouraging me. Not sure if I'll add to this at some point, but the muse demanded I write it so... hope you enjoyed!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** It appears my muse likes pining!Klaus as much as you guys do ;) _

* * *

As a rule, he did not make concessions or bargains. After refusing to spend a life - even an immortal one - as anything less than the fullest version of himself, he had neither the patience or the desire to do things by halves.

But for the first time in centuries, he'd found a half of something more satisfying than many of the fuller cups he'd drained to the dregs.

His childhood hunger for his father's love had crippled his trust in the world. And his life shackled by Esther's curse had been full of shame and self- loathing. In each instance he'd been driven by the knowledge that something better awaited him, some horizon of his own. He had risked and gambled and pursued, firm in the belief that what he might lose could not compare to what he deserved to gain.

And yet, in the case of Bonnie Bennett, such assurance failed him.

He spent long hours picturing her tousled and smiling on the pillow beside him. The careless, casual touches shared between them that had no seeming affect on her, - a hand on his sleeve, her shoulder brushing his chest - set him aflame. And in those moments it became difficult to remember why he bothered to exercise any restraint, why he did not follow his desires in the single-minded manner to which he'd grown accustomed. There could be no doubt that having her in all the ways he longed to have her would bring a sense of repletion that, as the centuries passed, grew increasingly rare.

But then she would smile at him in her quiet, trusting way. Or listen to him rant about the newest coven hatching a plot to kill him with a patient look in her eye, her head cocked like a bird's. Still other times, he would meet her gaze across the bodies of mutual enemies and see there a grim satisfaction that mirrored his own (never let it be said that Bonnie Bennett lacked a warrior's pride). And then there were the evenings in the parlor, nursing their respective tea and bourbon, alternating between easy conversation and easier silence.

(Over the years he'd accumulated a sizable vinyl collection - having scoffed when the populace rushed to embrace CD's and gloated when they scrambled back to record players - that was a source of no little vanity. His siblings each had their own peculiarly honed taste in music, and the four of them often devolved into heated arguments about this or that obscure composer or extinct folk melody. Bonnie had no such compunctions or investments, being simply a lover of good music no matter the source. And so she would peruse his collection with a curiosity he found damnably charming, asking questions and giving thoughtful opinions.

"Grams _loved_ Alice Coltrane. Owned all her records, went to a bunch of concerts."

"Sheila Bennett had exceptional taste."

She nodded fondly, remembering. "She really did. Did you know Alice Coltrane spent time in India?"

In lieu of answer, he reached above her head for one of his rarest records and placed it in her hands.

Her eyes widened as a look of reverence swept over her face. "Is this...?"

" _Prarthana_. Recorded on the banks of the Ganges with the closest members of her ashram. This is one of four copies in the entire world."

"How did you-"

"Alice was a good friend, and an extraordinary woman. I spent some time in her company after her husband's death." He held out his hand, lifting the needle on the gramophone. "Shall we?"

And as the room filled up with the dizzying, euphoric music, each note suspended in the late afternoon light, he noticed her wiping her cheek.

"Grams would've loved this," she said, simply.

And in the quiet look shared between them there was something true and wistful that he dared not tarnish. That hovered, like the music, in the brilliance of a moment too beautiful for tangibility.)

Over the years he had been called many names by friends and foes and lovers. Not a few had likened him to the god of the underworld, crowned and yet malcontent. But these days he felt more of a kinship with Persephone, she who'd risked the world and all its sunlight for six drops of sweetness.

* * *

The sod's name, he discovers, is _Graham_. A recent implant from the British Isles, the man drew cartoons for a living and drove one of those vehicles he himself considered a _faux_ sports car (alternatively known as an Audi TT).

Bonnie had been seeing him for a couple of months.

He'd learned these basic facts from Rebekah who, to his annoyance, remained privy to far more of Bonnie's personal life than he. The two of them would often leave for "girl's brunch" on Sundays, and not a few times he'd watch Bonnie disappear into Rebekah's room with an armful of nail polish and remain therein for hours at a time while the sounds of music and laughter drifted down to his study. One weekend they'd even taken off to Miami with Bonnie's friend Caroline in tow - how the witch convinced his sister and the blonde vampire she so detested to stomach each other's company much less spend an entire four days in a hotel room together was beyond his imagination, the only conclusion he could draw being that Bonnie Bennett had an extraordinary talent for making people put aside their petty differences and unite for a greater cause (or, in this case, for a beautiful beach and expensive tropical drinks) - and Rebekah (to whom his feelings for the witch had become a great source of amusement) had tormented him upon their return with details about Bonnie cavorting in the blue water in a yellow bikini and fending off bevies of admirers until he had threatened to empty the entire contents of Rebekah's closet into the bayou.

She'd laughed, patting his arm. "There there Nik. Maybe next time I'll convince her to text you a _selfie_."

It was only Bonnie's entrance into the parlor that had prevented him from crushing Rebekah's phone and throwing the metal dust in her eyes.

He had yet to meet Graham, as Bonnie insisted on keeping her romantic life separate from what she jokingly referred to as her "work family", but the first few nights she spent at her paramour's place drove him to make such a dent in Elijah's collection of liquor that his brother threatened to put the cabinet under lock and key. And so, against his better judgement, he started to join Kol on his pub crawls. Drinks were plentiful and neither of them had a dearth of choice when it came to sexual partners, but while Kol revelled in the debauchery, he found himself not a little bored, his thoughts straying to the spirited little witch who was spending her smiles in another man's arms. Even the reappearance of his old drinking-buddy-with-benefits, Aurora, who made no secret of the fact that she fancied another roll in the hay with him, could not stir his dull mood. And so he settled for challenging Kol to endless drinking contests, returning home in such a state as to annoy Elijah extremely.

"Niklaus, I will thank you not to track mud on the carpet. It is an antique."

He sized up his elder brother who looked very stern indeed in his robe and slippers, and laughed. "You -" he hiccuped, "- you look like Mother Goose." He staggered to the bar, reaching for the bourbon and taking a swig, knowing how it displeased his brother when he drank directly from the decanter.

Elijah pursed his lips. "It would be quite a pity if Miss Bennett were to return early and see you in such a state."

He glowered at his sibling, slouching towards the stairway. "Oh sod off."

"Niklaus, the decanter-,"

"WILL GO WHERE I GO."

* * *

Unfortunately, his attempts to ensure that Bonnie should never witness him in any state approaching weakness were foiled by none other than himself. Or, what Elijah referred to as "your grand tradition of self-sabotage."

A vampire who'd caused trouble with the wolves and even made some hazy threats against the Mikaelsons proved all bark and very little bite when, one Saturday afternoon, he and Bonnie cornered him in an alleyway. And seeing as how he didn't fancy getting blood on his new jacket, he sent the wanker off with a nasty bit of Compulsion instead of bothering to separate his heart from his chest cavity.

"Wow," Bonnie remarks, watching the vampire in question totter away. "That was easy."

"Embarrassingly so for him, yes." His mood turns when he notices her glancing at her phone. "And what time will you be dining with Gareth?"

"Oh, it's Graham."

"Right. Of course. _Graham_." He enunciates as they fall into step with each other.

"Not 'til later," she shrugs, scrolling her phone. She comes to such an abrupt stop that he grows concerned.

"What is it?"

She looks up with a dazzling smile. "Since my afternoon is miraculously open, I'm gonna go to the rose festival. Today's the last day, and it's only a couple of blocks away."

"Ah, I was wondering why the scent of elderly women's perfume was wafting in the air."

She gasps in mock outrage. "Hey! I love roses."

"And you inherited this love from...?"

"My grandmoth- oh whatever," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, I'll see you later."

And that should've been the end of it. As a creature with heightened olfactory capabilities, places teeming with strong scents weren't high on his list of Pleasant Outings. But the chance to spend time with her outside of their usual settings proved irresistible, so instead he'd announced a desire to see the festival for himself and observe the "elderly in their natural habitat".

(She had mentioned once, in passing, how Sheila Bennett had owned an antique necklace of delicate gold roses that, after her death, passed to her granddaughter, and that the necklace - having sustained some damage during Sheila's adventurous life - thus resided always in a locked box in the altar inside Bonnie's room. Upon learning this, he'd induced Rebekah to help him steal the necklace so he could bring it to a famed jeweler in Switzerland that would restore it to its former glory in time for the witch's upcoming birthday. Rebekah had refused to assist him at first, still firm in her belief that he should make no overtures towards the witch. It was only when he'd pointed out how happy it would make Bonnie to have her grandmother's necklace repaired - and didn't Rebekah _want_ to see her friend happy? - that she'd acquiesced.)

He realized the festival was a mistake in less than five minutes. Rose air freshener, rose candles, rose incense, mini fountains of rose water, rose lemonade, and, failing all that, buckets and buckets of blooming roses at the height of their fragrance, thickened the air with scents strong to the human nose and overwhelming to his.

It wasn't long before his eyes were watering and a dull ache had settled around his forehead. More than once he considered flashing off and clearing his airways. But _she_ was here, a crown of may queen roses perched playfully atop her hair, savoring the scent of every bloom she passed, delighted with all she saw. It was worth the discomfort to watch her flit between the various stalls like a butterfly, to hear the delicious little sounds she made eating a cup of rose icecream. To watch the contented smile on her face as she purchased rose soap, and picture her covered in fragrant bubbles. His mind took off running with the image of her reposing in his clawfoot tub, head resting happily on the edge, smoothing a rosy bar of soap over her legs. Perhaps she would call for him to soap her shapely back and slender shoulders. Perhaps he would join her in the tub-

"Klaus? Are you ok?"

The pain has mounted in his temples, and his nasal passages throb in equally agonizing protest.

" 'course, love. Why wouldn't I be?"

She frowns, coming to stand close to him. "You're blinking really hard... like you're gonna faint."

" _Faint?_ " he scoffs, "what nonsense."

Truthfully, he was feeling a _touch_ disoriented, what with essence of rose assaulting his senses from all sides. But the witch had no reason to suspect such a thing.

In fact, he is about to reiterate just how very far away from fainting he is when she robs him of speech entirely by standing on her tiptoes to lay the back of her hand across his forehead. Her skin is cool as water, her lovely face full of concern and close enough for a kiss. "You look a little feverish. Did you get hexed and forget to tell anyone?"

The warm lilt of her voice holds him captive. He is dizzy at the thought of her hand travelling up into his hair, combing through his locks and perhaps scratching lightly along his scalp-

"No," he says in a low voice, "there's no hex."

"Then what-,"

There's a crash behind them, someone scrambling in apologetic embarrassment and pulling their toddler away from the display of perfumes they'd knocked to the floor. The broken vials each release their own potent scent. To his horror and dismay, he sways a little, causing Bonnie to steady him. Her eyes widen in realization. "Ohhhhh... _oh no,_ all this scent. You must be dying."

"I'm quite well-,"

"Let's get you out of here. Poor wolf nose."

"I am _fine_ , thank you," he growls.

His protests fall on deaf ears. Bracing her shoulder under his, she wraps an arm around his waist - a ridiculous notion, as though she could ever support his weight - and begins escorting him away from the festival grounds. His senses breathe in thankful relief the further they get. His arm is resting over her shoulders, her head tucked on his chest.

"This probably isn't helping," she mutters, pointing to her rose crown before tugging it off. A breeze lifts her dark curls to his face and for an indulgent moment he lets his eyes drift shut, breathing their clean warm scent. It's a moment that floats, full of possibility, like a note of music in the sunlight. He could turn her, capture her mouth in his, tangle his hands in her hair and kiss her until she forgets all about her evening plans.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks, extricating herself gently from his side. Her face is still etched with the sweetest concern, the most exquisite regard. And he thinks to himself, _Enough_. It's enough this measure, this cup, these few pomegranate seeds. Even with its ache and bitter tinge, its maddening scarcity. Enough.

"Nothing a little evening snack won't cure," he grins, gesturing at the busload of tourists dismounting at Bourbon Street. "Enjoy your dinner with Gareth, love."

She rolls her eyes. "It's Graham."

"I'm sure."

"Well...you enjoy your night, Klaus," she says, with a hint of awkwardness. And then she's off with a little wave, and he watches her go with a twinge he's grown accustomed to.

Still feeling restless after he's fed, he takes out his phone and places a call.

"Hello 'Rora. Fancy a drink?"

* * *

xxx _Two Weeks Later_ xxx

Savoring the lovely brunch weather, Rebekah sips from a mimosa and tries to school her expression as Bonnie finishes playing a YouTube video of Graham doing some kind of tutorial about using a design tablet. She hasn't met the man yet - Bonnie's planning to introduce him to her and Caroline during her birthday dinner next week - and when Bonnie had first told her about him, his profession and personality and interests, Rebekah had put the similarities down to mere coincidence.

Now, she watches the sandy-haired, leather-jacket wearing bloke on the video sign off his segment - "That's it for today, loves. Catch you next time, and be sure to hit Subscribe if you liked this tutorial. Cheers!" - with a sinking realization.

Bonnie smiles shyly. "He's so nice now, but apparently he used to be , I quote, 'a real terror' when he was a teenager."

"Was he now?" Rebekah downs her drink and calls for another. "An artistic type with a London accent and streak of rebellion. Sounds positively _novel_."

Bonnie sets her phone down on the table with a look of exasperation, "Bex, you can't decide you don't like him before you even meet him."

"Something tells me I've met his type before."

"Really?" the witch asks, a blank look on her face.

 _Oh you've got to be joking._ Rebekah downs the second mimosa before it even touches the table. The poor girl really had no clue.

"Bonnie, darling, don't you think Graham is...well, a lot like someone else you know?"

Bonnie frowns a little, then her expression clears. "Oh, you mean Jeremy, because of the art thing and getting in trouble. I can see that." She pauses, shrugging. "I guess I have a type."

Rebekah snorts.

"Do you think it's a bad idea? Dating someone like Graham?" Bonnie asks with perfect sincerity, having appealed to Rebekah's considerably vaster experience with men on numerous occasions. She chews her lip."I mean, he does get a little moody sometimes-,"

"Let me guess: issues with mum and dad?"

Bonnie's eyes pop in surprise, "How'd you know?"

Rebekah stifles a groan. "Oh just a hunch. Intuition really." She stares into the bottom of her glass, debating whether to point out the obvious or let things take their course. Nik's been spending time with Aurora again, and while she personally loathed their tendency to bond over their Misunderstood Loner status ( a bond that quickly devolved into churlishness on Niklaus' part and codependency on Aurora's) at least it was keeping him busy and out of Bonnie's way. She'd thought, foolishly, that they were all in the clear as far as Nik's crush on the witch. But now here's Bonnie, dating a human copy of her brother.

 _Lovely. Just lovely._

Bonnie continues telling her about Graham's troubled home life, "-after his stepmother adopted him, things got bad. She wanted to control every aspect of his life. So when he was fifteen he snuck out and got a tattoo-,"

"He has a tattoo." Rebekah sighs. _Of course_ he has a tattoo.

"Well, he has about five now-,"

"Waiter!"

She orders a fifth round of mimosas.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Fun fact number one - my muse has a part four and five planned, because she runs a tight ship and there's no rest for the Klonnie shipper._

 _Fun fact number two - while the record "Prarthana" is fictional, Alice Coltrane **did** spend time in India, and much of her later music was deeply influenced by her religious practice. I'd recommend listening to "World Spirituality Classics 1: the Ecstatic Music of Alice Coltrane" if you're interested; it's truly transcendent._

 _Drop me a line or two with your thoughts in the reviews!_


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N:_** _My faceclaim for Graham is Dan Stevens._

* * *

Graham Martin prided himself on self-awareness if little else, and he'd been aware shortly after their third date that he was capable of falling quite in love with Bonnie Bennett.

She was the kind of girlfriend most blokes dream about. Beautiful and kind, sweet and charming, intelligent and funny, she would've captured his attention even without the almost preternatural wisdom beneath her youthful beauty. When his heart was heavy, she let him unburden it. If he needed cheering up, her smile and wry sense of humor never failed. When he chafed against the animation industry's pitfalls, she revived his faith in his own talent. And she looked damned good in some lace lingerie.

There was just one problem: she just might be in the mafia.

Once or twice he'd broached the subject of her employment to Bonnie, and each time she'd brushed it off claiming that "Klaus" was an extremely private individual. Graham had never met her mysterious employer (the man had no discoverable social media presence), but a phone-call or text from him had interrupted Graham's dates with Bonnie so often it was as though his presence loomed over them at all times. Piecing together what little Bonnie had divulged about her job combined with his observations of the strange hours she worked and the stranger things she carried in her purse (not to mention the few times she arrived at dinner with splatters of what he could've sworn was blood on her jacket) Graham had been forced to relinquish his earlier theory that Klaus was an eccentric art dealer who employed Bonnie as personal assistant and concede that the man was some kind of mob boss running an operation out of New Orleans. Admittedly, it was difficult to reconcile the charming girl who brought him muffins at work and rubbed eucalyptus oil on his head during migraines with underground assassinations and backroom deals, and yet there were moments when a flash of steel appeared beneath her sweet veneer that sent chills down his spine.

Like the time he saw some guy try and feel her up while he was getting drinks at the bar and hurried over, only to catch the wanker fleeing with a look of terror and pain on his face. Bonnie had only smiled at his amazement and pulled him onto the dancefloor. Then there was the time two creepy guys in long black coats kept staring at them throughout dinner until finally Bonnie walked over and had a word with them. Graham couldn't catch much of the conversation, but he heard her say the name "Klaus" and the next thing he knew the men were scrambling to exit the restaurant.

But perhaps most disconcerting of all, the same person whose mere name seemingly had the power to strike fear into the hearts of grown men inspired only warmth and cheer in Bonnie. A text from Klaus almost always made her smile, and the bits of phone conversation Graham overheard sounded more than just cordial: Bonnie spoke to Klaus as though they were intimate acquaintances. In fact, if she were of a different, more flighty nature, Graham would almost suspect she and Klaus of carrying on with each other. But he was, admittedly, so captivated that he may have pursued her regardless.

In some ways, it was almost painfully familiar. Having grown up on the rougher side of Brixton he'd seen and known many a beautiful, good-natured girl who, through some cruel twist of fate or circumstance, fell in with strange and terrifying people like this "Klaus" surely was. Experience had also taught him that, more often than not, inserting himself into the situation only proved dangerous for everyone involved. Also, though he knew little about her family, Bonnie seemed a smart, capable girl with a few more resources than his unfortunate schoolmates, and he had no doubt that she should ask his help if and when she needed it.

Whoever this "Klaus" was and whatever the nature of his business, Graham was certain of one thing: Bonnie was worth sticking around for.

* * *

Aurora de Martel was many things, but she wasn't blind.

In the years that she and Nik had revived and severed and revived their drunken dalliances, she'd always known, deep down, that they were never destined for anything more. It wasn't that he was unkind (on the contrary, he treated her far better than most of the supernatural men she regularly and gleefully wasted her heart on ) or that they lacked common interests (she'd been a musician all her life, and he understood the way few others did the drive to lose yourself in your chosen art-form, seeking a piece of your soul you'd thought long squandered). It was simply that they were both too hungry. They craved the love and affection they'd been deprived of in their youth selfishly, viciously. They emptied each other like red wine night after night, over and over, chasing euphoria and outrunning the hangover. It was a kind of extravagant escapism, one they always tried to prolong as long as possible.

But the inevitable realities of who they were never failed to catch up, and they would part ways glutted on their own hunger. Aurora knew the routine, could trace the patterns of this dance in her mind a hundred times. And yet, here she was again, spiralling across the same floor. Perhaps, she was foolish. Or maybe this was a peculiar curse of immortality: the constant return to old haunts, old lovers, old mistakes.

The elegant box on Nik's nightstand had caught her attention almost immediately, her inquisitive nature prompting her to reach for it as soon as she heard the shower start to run. This was the first time they'd slept at _his_ New Orleans residence, Nik usually preferring to stay the night at her place, if he stayed at all. The box is hand-carved ebony, and the small emblem read Vogel  & Sons; no doubt some exclusive jeweler. With one more furtive glance in the direction of the bathroom, Aurora undoes the clasp and looks inside.

Golden roses gleam there, suspended between chains fine as a spider's web. An antique that's been restored with great care (and no doubt enormous expense), new and polished enough to decorate a hopeful young woman's neck.

A woman that isn't her.

She should've known, really. She and Nik had a tendency to crawl into each other's orbits when something knocked them off their own. Before returning to New Orleans she'd spent a year in Paris - a precious, dreamlike year - in the arms of a young architect with poetic aspirations. Khalil was prepared to leave his family, his whole life, to follow her wherever she chose. In the end, she'd left the city having Compelled him to forget her.

Aurora sets the box where she found it and crawls back under Nik's covers. He'd made mention of food, and a walk through the Quarter. There was a place around the corner that served pastries.

Humans with their candleflame lives made such a fuss over "breaking patterns" and "starting fresh". It was easy to break things when you weren't staring down the barrel of eternity, to start things when there was always a new country, an unexplored continent to start _in_. But when you've lived long enough to circle the globe, chase a thousand setting suns, reach the bottom of countless poems -

(she couldn't bear it, the idea of watching her lover lose his mortality, lose that flickering, hungry innocence) -

\- the golden roses weren't yours, would perhaps never be yours.

But, well, breakfast might be.

* * *

"Bonnie darling you know I adore you, but you're a terrible liar."

Rebekah watches the little witch collapse despairingly into a chair.

"I know, I know," she groans, "I've already been super evasive about what I do for a living and I think he's catching on that I'm not just a P.A."

Rebekah snorts, "A little bit of Compulsion should do the trick. If you like I can-,"

"No!" Bonnie protests with startling vehemence. "I don't want Graham involved in magic or vampires or any of it. In any kind of way."

She takes a seat next to her friend and gives her hand a placating squeeze. "But darling, isn't that a tad unrealistic in the long run?" she asks gently. "Even if you weren't living with us you'd still be a witch. It's part of who you are, you can't change it anymore than you can the color of the sky. Sooner or later, Graham is bound to find out."

Bonnie's face falls a little and Rebekah feels a twinge of regret at not having voiced the topic sooner. When she'd urged the witch to join a dating app, she'd thought Bonnie would have a few flings and enjoy her newfound freedom, not seek solace in some hapless human who shared disconcerting similarities with her brother. And while she could understand Bonnie's desire to keep things the way they were, Rebekah's own life was a distressing testament to the follies of supernaturals pursuing romantic relationships with humans.

"I know," Bonnie says tiredly. "It's just, after that whole thing with Jeremy and Anna... I don't want to worry about ghosts and spells and curses in my lovelife you know? If a guy doesn't want me, I want there to be a clear-cut, _human_ reason why. The rest of my life is complicated enough."

Her friend seems so wistful and crestfallen that Rebekah decides this is a terrible time to point out that things are bound to get infinitely more complicated once she realizes that her pursuit of a "normal" relationship with Graham is an elaborate attempt to escape the truth of her feelings for Nik and, by extension, the truth of what her life really is. So she proffers a comforting smile instead.

"You know what, enough of this depressing existential babble. Let's go out and buy you a smashing birthday dress, alright?"

Bonnie cheers a little and picks up her purse. "We'll have to Facetime Caroline at the store."

"I suppose we must," Rebekah replies, rolling her eyes.

"You know, for the first time in a long time I'm really excited about my birthday. And I can't wait for you guys to meet Graham."

"The feeling's mutual," she says dryly.

Truthfully, she pitied the poor fellow. No matter what he's planning to gift Bonnie on her birthday, Nik's present would outshine it by miles. If Bonnie didn't catch a clue after that, well...

Rebekah makes a mental note to check the restaurant menu ahead of time and ensure they stocked plenty of vodka.

* * *

 _I don't want to worry about ghosts and spells and curses in my lovelife you know? If a guy doesn't want me, I want there to be a clear-cut, human reason why._

Bonnie's words that he'd accidentally overheard on his way to drinks with Marcel, followed Klaus like a ghost. They filled his ears while Aurora strummed a Parisian folk ballad on her guitar, they throbbed behind his eyes while he swallowed his dignity to peruse Google and Facebook and even bloody Instagram for more information about Bonnie's paramour.

Thus far he'd refrained from seeking out more information about the fellow than Bonnie divulged out of respect for the witch's peculiar sense of privacy and a self-respecting refusal to stoop so low. But there was something about that word - _human_ \- that pricked like a needle. And as he scrolled through pages and pictures of Graham's life, the needle became a blade cutting open a forgotten wound.

A boy who'd glimpsed cruelty far too young, an artist making a living from his work, a man who took pride in himself and faced each day with purpose: he might have been those things and only those things, once. If fate had taken a different turn, if he'd been granted a single lifespan instead of hundreds, he might have found himself as Graham did, living in a city like New Orleans as a man and not a name that inspired terror and hate, kissing Bonnie Bennett good morning on her birthday before the sunrise did, knowing she'd entrusted him with her happiness.

He approached Graham during the man's lunch break at a local cafe, strolling up to his table with hand outstretched. "Graham, am I right? Niklaus Mikaelson, pleasure to finally meet you."

Graham's face betrays his familiarity with the name. _No matter_ , Klaus thinks. He would forget this encounter soon enough.

In another life, he wouldn't exist. In another life, he wouldn't know himself. In another life love would be as easy as a phone call, a kiss, breakfast with no shoes on. In another life, he'd sit across Bonnie on the night of her birthday and every night that followed.

Klaus slides into the booth, addressing the other man without preamble or invitation. "I take it Bonnie has mentioned her late grandmother, Sheila Bennett?"

* * *

The gift giving portion of the birthday dinner is winding down when Rebekah watches Graham retrieve a striking ebony-carved box that he places before the witch.

"Just open it, love," he says lightly, smoothing her protests about the number of things she's already received from him.

Bonnie gasps, hands trembling as she lifts her grandmother's necklace to the light, golden roses shining in her tears.

* * *

 ** _A/N_** _:_

 ** _Me, a hapless writer:_** _you know what, it's been a traumatic and exhausting bitch of a week, lemme update one of my fun romantic fics-_

 ** _The Muse:_** _*blazed af, listening to Complainte de la Butte by Rufus Wainwright on repeat while cackling* 1-800-BITCH-U-THOUGHT_

 _Anyway, review to reward my suffering lol. xoxoxox_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** I wrote and edited this dozed up on DayQuil and nasal spray (the struggle is real y'all) so please excuse any typos or errors._

 _ **Note:** Khalil is an OC mentioned last chapter that Aurora had a previous relationship with._

* * *

It's about a month after Bonnie's birthday when Rebekah notices a dip in the girl's spirits.

She doesn't say much, but every so often she'd catch the witch staring out a window with a wistful look in her eyes, or gazing at the same page on her Grimoire for hours.

Nik, after pulling that stunt with the necklace, had characteristically left town citing some nonsense about him and Aurora enjoying the Parisian spring. Rebekah had restrained her contempt for _that_ feeble excuse. She was familiar enough with his emotionally inept, lovelorn tendencies to know that Paris was nothing more than a temporary escape that would soon lose its flavor and send him shuffling back to New Orleans, and the witch whom she bloody well knew he still had feelings for.

When she'd watched poor hapless Graham parrot the clearly Compulsion-aided story about wanting to restore Bonnie's grandmother's necklace, and how he'd induced her, Rebekah, to retrieve it for him, she'd at first been frustrated that Nik had involved her in his silly plan without so much as a warning. She'd been reluctant enough to procure the necklace for Nik, knowing that the intent and regard behind such a gift would not go unnoticed even by someone as adorably oblivious as Bonnie, and a part of her wanted to flatly lay out the truth, trusting in the restaurant's vodka supply to carry them through the fallout (she'd checked said supply well in advance). But in the end, while she didn't fancy lying to Bonnie, she fancied the idea of ruining her birthday dinner with the truth even less. Which, of course, was why Nik had gambled with this coup in the first place. And so cursing her brother under her breath and in several strongly worded text messages, Rebekah had beamed at the couple and corroborated that yes, Graham had messaged her about procuring the necklace several weeks ago and she'd delivered it to him personally.

Nik had ignored her barrage of shouty texts and replied only:

 _"Is she happy then?"_

Instead of answering, she'd sent him a picture of Bonnie smiling in the glow of birthday candles with golden roses at her neck.

His next text came several hours later, informing her that he was on the way to Paris with Aurora for a while.

* * *

Spring warmed quickly into early summer in New Orleans, and Bonnie's air of quiet sadness lingered. Rebekah found her in the parlor one evening where Nik kept his obnoxiously huge record collection, sipping her tea while her Grimoire lay open and ignored on the table beside her.

"Alright, out with it," the blonde demands, dropping down on the settee. "And don't bother lying. You've been walking around looking like a kicked puppy for weeks now. I've noticed. Elijah's noticed. The bloody houseplants have noticed." She folds her arms and gives her a no nonsense stare. "Out with it, Bennett."

Bonnie heaves a deep sigh and looks down into her half-empty cup. "I think I have to break up with Graham." She looks up in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"To the liquor cabinet, darling."

* * *

"Maybe there's something wrong with me-,"

"Nonsense!" Rebekah scoffs, refilling her glass.

"He's really great, and I like spending time with him, but something's missing and I just don't know what."

Rebekah glances around the room they're seated in, the woven wall hangings Nik spent a whole day mounting, the shelves upon shelves of vinyl that he'd threatened to dagger any of his siblings for touching, the small pile of sketchbooks in the corner by his favorite chair. While her annoyingly artistic brother always assumed the lead in decorating the homes they shared, no other room in the house was quite as marked with his presence, his inner, private character, as this one. Rebekah has to once again restrain herself from stating the obvious, and instead gives her friend a sympathetic glance. "So...what do you plan on doing?"

"It's not fair to keep stringing him along when I don't feel the same way he does," Bonnie says, sadly. "You know what I was planning to get him for his birthday? A scarf. A friggin' _scarf_ , Bex." The witch lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "He needs someone who cares enough about him - who knows enough about him - to give him the kind of birthday gift he gave me."

"It sounds like you've already made up your mind," Rebekah notes, sipping her own drink.

The witch gives a long exhale and settles into the plush settee. "I know what I have to do but...I just keep thinking, what if this is my last chance at something _good_? What if...," her voice wavers a little. "Restoring Gram's necklace...no one's ever done something like that for me Bex. No one."

"Oh you'd be surprised," she mumbles.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," Rebekah sighs, setting her glass down. "Look, Bonnie, take it from someone who's been receiving and rejecting gifts for a millennia. When it's the right person -," and here she pauses, thinks of the silver bangle Marcel had bought her from a street fair many centuries ago, how she'd worn it for decades even while it tarnished and faded beside her other, more resplendent jewels, how she'd pressed it into his hand when they were reunited years later. "- when it's the right person, a trinket or even a scarf will become something you treasure."

A watery smile ripples across the witch's face. "Thanks, Bex." She pauses to glance down at her tea again and takes a deep, decisive breath. "I guess this is it. I'm going to break up with Graham."

Rebekah gives a slow nod and, ignoring Bonnie's protests, pours some more of Elijah's treasured scotch whiskey into the witch's cup, wondering how Nik's faring, looking for spring in the city of love.

* * *

Klaus tries his best to stay away.

The minute he saw Rebekah's laconic text informing him that Bonnie had broken things off with Graham, his first instinct was to charter a plane and be in New Orleans by morning. He spent two dizzy, golden hours on his balcony overlooking the Seine, picturing his return, picturing himself seizing Bonnie in his arms, kissing her mouth and breathing the warm scent of her neck with a promise never to allow a mere human to come so close to claiming what was his and his alone to adore and protect and keep. The blissful fever dissipated however when, once more, he recalled Bonnie's words about her desire for a human connection untouched by supernatural influences, a desire he'd already gone against by Compelling that boy to gift her the necklace.

And yet, he didn't trust himself to be near her and not make some impassioned overture, so he mastered his instincts and lingered in Paris.

For a time.

At length he received word from Elijah and Marcel, informing him of some trouble brewing between the wolves and a new coven of French Quarter witches, and requesting his presence before a simple territorial conflict engulfed the whole city. He told himself it was concern for New Orleans alone that had him packing in a whirlwind and hastening to the airport with only a farewell note and a gift on Aurora's pillow.

It's sunset by the time he arrives home and finds his way to the parlor, already having caught the faint scent of her skin. The witch is curled up on the settee nursing what looks to be a cup of jasmine tea while the haunting, liquid tones of Alice Coltrane float around her. Seeing her thus ensconced in his favorite part of the house causes a such a deep flare of possessive joy as to almost steal his breath. He forgets, for a moment, all his careful plans for self-restraint, caught in the grip of a powerful desire to simply touch her.

"Klaus," she rises with a warm smile that quickly turns shy. "I hope you don't mind me using the record player, I really wanted to hear this piece again."

Dusk bathes her in a warm glow. Her dress, patterned with scarlet rosebuds, leaves her shoulders bare and flows out prettily from her slender waist while the sweep of her neck, exposed by loosely upswept curls, invites his lips and teeth in equal measure.

"I don't mind," he hears himself say thickly.

"Do you...want some tea? Or, I guess you probably want a drink before hearing about this bullshit in the Quarter," she finishes, with a little eye roll he finds entirely adorable. "How was Paris?"

"Lovely," he says, without removing his eyes from her. He could've sworn she blushes when he pours himself a drink and sits down beside her. She sweeps the long skirt of her dress aside and tucks her feet beneath her, proceeding to inform him about the latest outbreak of fighting between the wolf pack and two rogue members of the now disbanded coven. He's missed the earthy sound of her voice, the muted fragrance of lavender and honeysuckle mixed with the warm scent of her body, the sensual ache he's come to associate exclusively with her closeness. But even more, as she continues talking and outlining the steps already taken to quell the brewing conflict, he realizes he's missed something more intangible as well. He's missed _her_ , the bright current of her presence only hinting at the depths beneath, the quiet calm of her convictions ready to catch fire when threatened and how, in her own way, she cares for the city he calls home as much as he.

"Rebekah informed me about you and Graham," he says during a lull in their conversation. "I am sorry, love."

She blinks with a little smile. "That's the first time you've said his name right."

"I hadn't noticed," he mumbles, reaching for the decanter he'd placed on the coffee table before them.

"How's Aurora?" she asks, tentatively.

"Quite well I imagine, now that I'm no longer in her company," he answers, clearing his throat.

She digests this in silence as he leans back, their arms brushing slightly as the music ebbs and laps an imaginary shore.

"This is my favorite track on the album," Bonnie says, closing her eyes. "I looked up the lyrics on Google translate, it's about love being like a river. We can bathe, swim, drink from it, but can't ever contain it. It's inside us, but we can't understand it."

"Terrible affliction," he murmurs into his drink, earning a small, dry laugh from her.

"Remember when I showed up in New Orleans with only a suitcase and a Grimoire to my name?"

"Vividly," he replies, glancing at her, her head having inched down to rest on his shoulder.

"Jeremy and I had broken up for the third time. I remember feeling like I was drowning."

Klaus waits for her to continue.

"He never got over it, you know. Seeing Anna's ghost, getting to hold her even after she was dead." Her eyes open slowly, staring straight ahead, lost in memory. "I found a whole notebook full of drawings of her. Pages and pages, like he saw her everyday instead of me."

"If I recall Gilbert's scribblings correctly, you should be thankful he never attempted your likeness."

Another small laugh travels through her body. "You know," she says after a pause, "you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. Your company is alright."

And he's seized by a feeling of helpless tumult, the moment fluttering within his grasp like a hummingbird's throat: to grasp too eagerly would crush, to slacken his fingers would relinquish. The perfection of her head on his shoulder, the sweetness of her trust, are things he would guard with unabated ferocity against even himself. But he wants to kiss her, taste the traces of jasmine tea in her mouth, whisper promises along her skin until she forgets about everything, Graham, Jeremy, everyone but him.

She makes the decision for him, rising suddenly with a murmured apology and gathering her things.

"I should go to bed, we have work to do tomorrow."

And with a hasty goodnight she's off, her Grimoire and teacup clutched close to her like amulets to ward off dark things.

* * *

Aurora isn't surprised when she wakes up to find Nik gone. Nor is she surprised by the contents of his note informing her that their rooms at the hotel are fully paid for and at her disposal for two more months. Whatever virtues he may lack, generosity isn't one of them. What does surprise her is the postscript at the bottom of his note which reads: _"I quite like the new song, and think Khalil should hear it. You deserve to have him hear it."_ The note is accompanied by a sketch, charcoal, his preferred medium, of her by the river, tuning her guitar. He's captured the small frown of concentration on her face so perfectly it aches, and she knows, somehow, that she won't see him again.

But the ache, she finds, doesn't linger. It ebbs and fades, and suddenly she's hungry for sunlight, to see the sparkling waters of the Seine and strum her guitar and watch the age old procession of lovers clasp and unclasp their hands. There's a sweetness welling inside her that longs to be shared, that's almost unbearable. Perhaps... perhaps she _would_ find Khalil again, sing him his song, slice out a small piece of her heart and offer it like cake.

She checks out of the hotel the next day, asking the receptionist to refund Niklaus. When a few days later, passing an antique jeweler's shop she's caught by a sudden impulse, Aurora follows the urge and writes him a small note, posting it with the evening mail as the sky turns a deepening rose.

* * *

Bonnie startles awake on the leather couch, wiping the side of her face and cursing when a sheaf of papers slips from beneath her feet to scatter on the floor. It's nearly five in the morning and she's been cooped up in Klaus' study for hours, hunting for a spell that the warring wolf pack and witch coven each claim to have been stolen by the other generations ago. Klaus and Elijah have been occupied at the Quarter since dawn, brokering an uneasy peace while she looks for the long-lost spell.

With a groan she gets to her feet and shuffles back to the massive oak desk where she'd set her French press of dark-roast coffee some hours ago. The wingback chair dwarfs her as she sinks down and pours herself another cup before cracking open her fifth Grimoire of the night. She's close to giving up and preparing for the grim reality that a war might indeed break out in the Quarter when she spies it, the four missing incantations for a spell that binds together those who've undergone it to commune telepathically so long as they don't cross water. Why someone would go to war for such a spell in this age of cellphones and email evades her, but to each their own. Having the spell in hand meant she and Klaus and Marcel could renegotiate terms and nip the fighting in the bud. In her hard-won triumph, she stands so quickly as to upset the French press and spill coffee over the haphazard collection of papers and letters covering Klaus' desk.

"Nooooooooooo," she hastens to sop up the coffee with her dress before her sleep deprived brain quietly reminds that she is, in fact, a witch. Murmuring a quick spell cleans off the mess and returns his papers to the order, or lack thereof, she found them in. It's then that the writing on a slip of paper catches her eye, a letter hurriedly opened and put aside ( as meticulous as Klaus was about his record collection, she finds this quality sorely lacking when it came to his study; something she and Elijah silently agreed on).

Her bleary gaze reads and rereads the words; she barely notices sitting down in the massive chair again.

 _Dearest Nik,_

 _I think I will sing Khalil his song. And, whoever she is, I hope you place those golden roses around her neck yourself._

 _Bonne chance, darling._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Aurora._

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I missed this schmoopy version of my babies. Let me know your thoughts in the reviews! xoxoxoxo_


	5. Chapter 5

He'd long since learned that Bonnie Bennett is as talented at dissemblance as she is magic, that this same witch who blazed into battle with her heart on her sleeve ready to avenge and protect, kept her private life silk screened: you caught silhouettes and glimpses, never the unclothed moments in between.

Klaus first takes note of the subtle shift in their interactions after they settle the affair of the lost spell between the wolf pack and the new coven. When he'd asked her to join him and Elijah for a celebratory drink, she'd declined and retired early to her room. In fact, most of her time was now spent between her room and long excursions to the Quarter that she undertook alone. She rarely joined him in the parlor and no longer asked to peruse the record collection. If she was present at family dinners she spent a great deal of time conversing with Elijah and Rebekah before making a quick exit. If he entered a room she was in, it was only a few minutes before she excused herself.

Early one morning, a few weeks after they'd restored the Quarter to a tenuous peace, he found her in the kitchen slicing oranges, and brushed past her to reach the refrigerator, murmuring a casual greeting on his way. The witch had jumped like a startled cat, slicing her fingertip open and spilling blood across the white counter.

He was at her side instantly, grasping her wrist to examine the cut. The scent of her blood mingled with that of the oranges and went straight to his head. He wanted to plunge her fingers into his mouth and lick them clean, to taste oranges on her lips. But more than these, he wanted things to return to how they were, when she would smile and make the the faint ache of wanting her somehow worthwhile.

As though reading his mind, her breathing hitched and a look he could swear was guilt flashed across her face.

"You should be more careful, little witch," he warned softly.

She pulled her hand away like she'd been burned, wrapping the finger in a napkin to stanch the bleeding.

"Well maybe _you_ shouldn't sneak up on people," she retorted, and before he could say another word, she was hurrying away from the kitchen, her fruit salad seemingly forgotten.

He first assumption was that she'd discovered his role in her birthday gift, but Rebekah denied disclosing this information. His second was that she was mourning the break up with Graham, and that her feelings for the human ran deeper than he had allowed himself to imagine.

As the days went on, their interactions fell into a wordless formality. She still performed spells and brewed elixirs as necessary, but where once she'd shared her craft with him in that subtle but joyful manner she had, she now did so with a perfunctory quality that confused as much as it frustrated him. Many a night saw him standing outside the closed door of her bedroom, poised to knock, to demand she tell him the reasons for her change in spirits.

And yet truthfully, he was afraid of what her answer might be, that she would confess to growing tired of him and her life in New Orleans and wanting to leave, and that he would either be unable to stop her, or unable to stop himself from forcing her hand. He told himself it was better to be in her presence, distant and reclusive though she had become, than contend with the reality of having driven her away. But more than ever he longed for that quiet, golden cadence they'd once shared - her arm linked through his while he was dizzy from the fragrance of roses, her head on his shoulder while music filled the air - when he'd believed that perhaps, this one time, he could make beauty outlast destruction, sweetness outweigh the bitter.

* * *

"Huh, I'd never have expected that of Aurora. Good for her," Rebekah remarks, sipping her mimosa under a large ribboned hat worn Duchess-of-Devonshire style that would look garish and ridiculous on anyone else yet somehow sits elegant on the Original. "So, what now witch?"

Bonnie frowns. Rebekah seems hardly surprised by what she'd divulged. "Did you know Klaus...had feelings for me?"

"He's my brother, and frightfully transparent, so yes." Rebekah says, tapping a manicured fingernail against her glass.

Bonnie, horrified, downs the rest of her drink. "How long have you known? When he asked you to sneak Gram's necklace out of my room?"

"Oh well before that, darling."

"Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were friends Bex. Friends tell their friends if their brothers like them!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, witch," Rebekah rebuffs. "There's a time and a place to divulge such things, and besides I assumed the feelings were one-sided until you showed up with a Nik-doppelganger for a boyfriend."

Bonnie's face falls. "Does everyone know?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Does Elijah know?"

"Oh yes."

"What about-,"

Rebekah cuts her off, "Bonnie, love, I wouldn't be surprised if the entire state of Louisiana knows. You and Niklaus are about as subtle as Mardi Gras."

Bonnie heaves a deep sigh.

"So, am I to be subjected to a few more weeks of these awkward silences and stolen glances between you two? Because if so, I'm expanding my liquor collection and sending _you_ the bill."

* * *

It's an unusually busy night at Rousseau's and the humid summer rain has everyone - vampires, wolves and witches - on a strange edge. An upstart warlock's been stirring trouble with some of Marcel's vampires, and the latter had enlisted their help in nipping things in the bud. Marcel holds court on the other side of the bar while Klaus finds his gaze straying far too often to the witch by his side as they wait for their quarry to show himself. Bonnie alternates between chewing on her nails and scrolling aimlessly on her phone. Any attempts at conversation on his part fall flat as they continue to linger in an uncomfortable silence that feels like a balloon floating too close to a needle.

And the longer they wait, the more the witch seems to fidget, until finally he turns to her and speaks gruffly, "I am perfectly capable of handling this bloke if there's somewhere else you'd rather be."

She gives him a look of confusion. "Where else would I be? This is kind of my job."

He feels a click in his jaw. "Hardly a mandatory status," he mutters into his drink. "Since it's increasingly clear that my company has grown undesirable to you in a number of ways."

"What?" she asks softly.

"You once said that you appreciated my honesty about the nature of our...relationship. And the truth is, useful though I may have found this trait of yours in the past, I do not wish for you to remain out of a copious sense of duty," he says, looking into her face and committing it to memory should this be the last time she sits so close to him. "I want you to stay because you desire it, and to leave when you so choose."

He notices warmth sweeping over face, followed by a strange, almost embarrassed look. "You think I don't like being around you?"

"What else am I to assume when you avoid me like the plague and don't-,"

"I like you," she blurts, stunning him into silence.

Klaus, who's fluent in more languages than he can count and fancies himself a cut above eloquent, finds he can only manage a hoarse, "What?"

She fiddles with the end of her shirt, her heartbeat going like birds as she tries and fails (adorably so, he thinks) to maintain a poised facade. "I found the letter Aurora wrote you. It was an accident! I was looking for that spell and I just saw it lying there and-," she takes a deep breath. "I know you fixed Gram's necklace, and that you Compelled Graham to give it to me instead. And I realized I like you, like _like_ you, and I have for a while...longer than I was ready to admit, and...," she gives a nervous laugh and glances around the establishment.

He stares at her in a rather dumbstruck fashion.

"This probably isn't a good time to talk about this-," She climbs off her stool and he finds himself placing a hand on her waist, drawing her close before she can slip away.

"It's the perfect time," he says, quietly.

Her bright eyes dart around for a few seconds before finally rising to his face. "This guy could show up any minute, we shouldn't be distracted."

"No, we shouldn't," he says, pulling her closer. There's an euphoric fervor making his head swim like rose perfume, but the narcotic sensation heightens rather than dulls his senses, sharpening each to a fine point of awareness with a singular, piercing focus that is Bonnie Bennett. The scent of lavender and sweat on her neck, the intoxicating flutter of her heartbeat, the magic under her skin that's both ancient and uniquely new, uniquely her, calling to him in ways that spark small thrills along his spine. When her eyes fall to his mouth he leans down to kiss her, a slight brush of a kiss that would've been over much too soon if her lips didn't follow his, if she didn't take light hold of the lapel of his jacket. Klaus claims her mouth hungrily, a growl escaping him when she returns his passion in kind, her small delicious tongue tracing the seam of his lips as his hands tighten along her waist. When he feels her smile into the kiss he nearly forgets where they are.

Before a sudden crash followed by a string of shouts brings their surroundings back into unpleasant focus.

"Hey lovebirds, look alive," Marcel mutters as he flashes past them to the source of the commotion, and the next several minutes are a melee of spells and dodged hexes and patrons scrambling for cover.

Their warlock turns out to be a seventeen year old boy flying high on a lesser form of Expression, and it takes all three of their concerted efforts to subdue him without - at Bonnie's insistence - injuring him.

She manages to put a temporary Bind on his magic, and soon Marcel's carting him off so that the witches in his employ can find the boy's coven and, by extension, his guardians.

Klaus finds Bonnie close to him again, an unreadable expression on her face.

"I have to go, there's... something I need to do."

Before he can mount a protest, she stands on her tiptoes to peck his cheek. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

* * *

Graham swears when the buzzer goes off, ambling to the door and pulling it swiftly open. "It's about bloody time."

He freezes instantly. Bonnie - the girl who'd stolen and broken his heart within the span of a few weeks - stands there holding the bag of takeout he'd ordered.

"Hi Graham," she says in a light voice. "Can I come in?"

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Only one chapter left after this! Thanks for going on this sappy, sappy ride with me. A couple of announcements: I'm taking a tiny hiatus for a few weeks to work on a dissertation chapter (can you believe fanfic doesn't count towards my degree? what a travesty amirite?) but I'll be back mid to late December with a new chapter of "a case of you" as well as a small holiday-themed AU I'm hoping to get written ;) For those of you that've asked about "some other way (to tell you you're okay)", the story isn't abandoned! But I don't see myself updating it until around spring 2018 once I've wrapped up a couple of the shorter stories I'm working on. Sorry! But such are the vagaries of the muse. _

_Thank you again for all your generous support and reviews of this lovey-dovey AU! Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter xoxoxox_


	6. Chapter 6

He's busy with the record player when the light sound of her footsteps drift to his ear.

It's been two hours since he left Rousseau's, the minutes ticking by like a dripping faucet in a silent house, his thoughts puddling and shrinking in paranoia as his brief interlude with the witch began to feel more and more ephemeral. He can still taste her lips, his hands still thrum with the feel of her waist, her scent clings to his clothes. But like vestiges of a dream that linger after waking, he fears them melting from his grasp to return a cold reality.

He puts the needle down, and Alice Coltrane's voice blooms around him.

"Hey...,"

He waits to turn around, not for lack of eagerness, but because an Orphean impulse clutches him. Perhaps he should've left well enough alone, maintained the comfortable distance they'd once enjoyed. Perhaps, even now, she's preparing to tell him so herself.

There's the shuffle of a jacket being removed and he hears her settle on the couch. Force of habit has Klaus reaching for the bell, intending to ring the kitchen for the tea she usually takes at this hour when her voice stops him, "I'll actually have what you're having, if that's okay."

Her tone is wry but warm, pulling a smile from him as he fills a second glass with bourbon and turns around at last. He finds a rain-speckled witch with her feet tucked beneath her, clearly comfortable and not going anywhere, her cheeks warming at his gaze.

The music is a river again and he forces himself to wait on the banks, to not seize her in his hands and re-acquaint himself with the dream. It's an effort that stretches him thin, so he downs the rest of his drink and pours himself another before she speaks.

"I went to see Graham."

* * *

" _Can I come in?"_

 _Graham stuffed his hands deep in each pocket, frowning as he contemplated her question. He wore his grey tracksuit and his hair was mussed no doubt from falling asleep on the sofa. She remembered their afternoon naps together and how he never complained when she inevitably stole the blankets. Guilt tightened her gut again and she wished she'd had the self-awareness to never involve him in any of this. But involved he'd gotten and she had to make it right._

 _Graham took the box of food from herand moved aside by way of reply. She stepped inside, assuring him lightly that she'd left the delivery guy a decent tip._

" _Good to know, I was worried you'd whacked him."_

" _What?"_

" _That's what your sort does, isn't it?"_

 _Bonnie froze a little. "My...sort?"_

" _The mafia." A tired smile passed across Graham's face. "Just a joke, love."_

* * *

Klaus can't repress a quiet chuckle. Graham is right, in his own way. New Orleans has no shortage of supernatural groups vying for power, but none dented the authority of the Mikaelsons. His family no longer engaged in open warfare with the other clans, but their position was unchallenged. It was a mutually beneficial acquiescence. He wouldn't stand any threat to the city, and the city repaid him by conceding his little domain. And having a Bennett witch at his side had only curried him more favor.

His thoughts sober a little, however, when he notes the pensive look on her face. He takes a sip of his drink. "And I presume you disabused him of that notion?"

The witch is silent for a long while before releasing a heavy sigh. "Do you remember what I told you about...about Jeremy? And why we broke up?"

Of course he did. He's catalogued every little morsel of her she's allowed him to and then some. But he only offers an attentive nod and waits for her to continue.

"When I realized he was still hung up on Anna I was so angry...I kept thinking if he hadn't seen her ghost he would've gotten over her. That he'd finally be the boyfriend I wanted him to be. Then we broke up and I told myself I'd never be in that position again...," she pauses, biting her lip as doubt sweeps across her face. She seems to be wrestling some inner conflict, trying to master her thoughts before she can express them.

He can't look away.

He'd never imagined he would be privy to such moments, that she'd let him glimpse beyond her careful doors.

"What happened, love?" he asks softly, afraid she might retreat again.

" _It wasn't you, and I wanted to make sure you heard that again," Bonnie said, looking down at her lap. "It was my fault. I was running away from my real feelings, and you got caught in the middle."_

 _Graham gave a humorless chuckle. They were seated on his couch, him nursing a beer while she chose her words as carefully as she could. "You know I think I've heard enough for one night," he said, focusing on the bottle in his hands. "You can see yourself out now."_

 _Bonnie sensed the injury beneath his tone. It's a familiar one, she'd borne that same wound for years, lived with it and inside it, laid it on her pillow every night. The last thing she'd wanted was to inflict it on someone else._

 _Which is why the next few seconds were crucial._

" _You can forget about all of this, you know. Me, Klaus, the break up...everything."_

 _Graham snorted. "Is that so?"_

 _She raised her hand to his forehead. A tender, ministering touch like when she'd tend to his headaches. His eyes widened at the bulb of blue light glowing around her fingers. And for a moment, between the shock and fear, a flash of wonder crossed his face._

 _"Yes," she said simply, her hand poised in the air._ _Bonnie smiled, meeting his gaze in a soft flicker of understanding. A feather of a moment, too light to grasp._

 _Then Graham leaned into the light and magic filled his head, swift and clean as a river._

 _He slumped forward into her arms as the spell took effect, and Bonnie lay him there on the couch where they'd often lain together, under the blanket someone else would one day steal from him. When he awoke, she would be gone, and the river would have receded, taking the memories, the wound, with it._

* * *

"I took his memories of me," Bonnie confesses, looking into the bottom of her empty glass. "So he wouldn't have to try and make sense of it all. I couldn't tell him the truth about - about the necklace and what I really am -,"

"So you spared him the painful confusion of having to wonder how he let you slip through his fingers," Klaus finishes for her as her green eyes slowly rise to meet his, their depths gleaming with that particular blend of steel and vulnerability he'd come to think of as quintessentially Bonnie.

"I know it wasn't the right thing-,"

"It was the _necessary_ thing," he reminds her, his hand moving to caress her cheek.

"And a task I might have happily carried out on your behalf, had you asked," he adds fondly. "It was I who Compelled the bloke."

She shakes her head. "You wouldn't have had to Compel him if I wasn't in denial. Not just about you...," she adds with a wry smile offsetting her blush, "but a lot of things. I wanted so badly to keep the supernatural away from my love life, as if the two could ever be separated...,"

Her words trail off and they both fall silent with the music, the air between them thickening warm and golden like honey. Her neck arches slightly into his touch, and he permits his fingers to trace the line of her jaw, her lips, the flutter of her pulse. His movements are slow. Her expression, open, soft, inviting, holding him entranced. So much so that he finds he'd rather not move, rather not dislodge the crystalline moment. He's an artist, he knows how things break, how you spend centuries trying to restore the unshattered moments before.

It's Bonnie who inches closer, her lips about to brush his when the clamor of his siblings' footsteps in the courtyard alert him to their impending presence. They move apart as the other Mikaelsons pour into the room: Kol, roaring drunk with more alcohol tucked under his arm, Rebekah swaying against Marcel's elbow, and Elijah behind them, his usual hauteur lightened into something more genial. In high spirits, they each make themselves comfortable while bursting into stories about their night in the Quarter and the festivities ensuing in the wake of the feud between two covens being peacefully resolved.

Kol insists on refilling Bonnie's drink as they all commend her efforts in preventing a mini war, and Klaus watches her accept the praise with her usual flustered modesty.

Occasionally her eyes would stray to his, bright and knowing, and time would thicken again, and he would thumb those precious seconds like gold-leaf.

* * *

Much later, when everyone else had wandered off, he walks Bonnie to her room. She seems quiet and contemplative again, and he finds himself oddly content to keep pace beside her as they traverse the compound.

Bonnie glances over her shoulder and sees him lingering at the threshold.

"Aren't...you going to come in?"

He clasps his hands behind his back with a small smile. "Is that an invitation, little witch?"

She flushes slightly. "It's your house."

"It's your room."

His eyes drink her in with quiet hunger as her runaway heartbeat fills his ears.

Her face flickers softly. "...come in."

It's as though a spell had fallen from her tongue. His feet move of their own volition, his hands take hold of her waist, his mouth finds hers without looking. He tastes her, breathes her deep. There's a river behind his temples, rushing, filling his senses and drowning him quietly. Bonnie's arms go around his neck and he presses her closer, taking her lower lip between his teeth, drawing a soft sigh out of her. It's a bit like being back at that rose festival again, only this time he welcomes the intoxication, sways into the dizzy sweetness of it.

They end up on her bed, pressed together, his hands molding her to him while he kisses her deeply. She's catlike beneath him, supple and warm. He inhales her with each pass of their lips. Every breath a pomegranate seed, precious and narcotic and dissolving on the tongue. Her shoes fall off and he feels a bare, delicate foot run along his trouser leg. It makes him smile into the kiss before he pulls away to trail his nose and lips down her neck, the urge to savor and devour warring inside him. He draws back slightly to soak in the sight of her, her parted lips and tousled hair, the soft warmth in her eyes.

Bonnie tucks her head against his shoulder and he holds her close.

At length he glances about, finally taking measure of the space she's made her own. The simple frames on the wall, the sage-green curtains, the small altar tucked into a corner piled with herbs and crystals.

"So...this is your room," he says with a knowing look, making her blush and roll her eyes. Her hands idle on his shirt and she appears to be thinking again.

Her glaze flicks to his. "Klaus...how are we going to do this?"

She isn't merely speaking of the physical, but the scope of her life here, the doors they're about to walk through that can't ever be undone.

He tilts her chin up and claims her mouth again. They have time, enough to draw out like taffy, to make it last, to melt. He promises this, his lips traveling over her jaw and throat, pausing at the swell of her breasts. Lifting her lilac-colored blouse, he bends to kiss the smooth slope of her stomach, tongue circling her belly button until she arches up, trembling.

"Slowly," he breathes against her skin.

* * *

 _epilogue_

He finds himself in Paris. It's early spring and the city is still silvered with traces of winter. It's not really a holiday he can afford (his day job as an animator for a startup studio paid the bills modestly at best) but lately he'd been feeling impulsive, adventurous, hungry for something he can't quite name. Most of all, he wants to draw. Not for work, not for the indie project he's developing with his friend, not for anything but simply...simply that he desires to, that something inside him's swung open like a window and a bird flown through, and that flight is a pattern he must understand, some meaning to decode and hold in his hands.

Graham finds a spot by the Seine, among the pigeons and the loitering couples, and takes out his sketchbook. With the river for company, he begins to sketch.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I hope y'all aren't too disappointed by the lack of smut; but so much of this fic is about the unknowability and mystery of certain experiences that I felt "showing" Klaus and Bonnie's more intimate physical exchanges would depart from the spirit of the story. You're free to disagree with me in the reviews tho! Thank you to every single one of you who's followed, favorited and most of all reviewed this story from the beginning. I started writing this as a oneshot, a glimpse really, and y'all helped me turn it into a six-chapter mini story that's honestly become one of my favorite AUs for my OTP. _

_Now that Klaus is "officially" dead in TO canon...literally nothing has changed as far as I'm concerned lol. I still plan to keep writing for Klonnie, both updates and new projects ;) However, I am in the crunch stage of dissertation writing, so if you don't see any updates for a month or so, that's why. I'm mostly done with the next chapter of "a case of you", and **thefudge** and I are co-planning another Klonnie event around Halloween, so I'm definitely not gonna be away for long. In the meantime, do check out "The Wager" by **TheHedgeRider** especially if you needed something to wash down the TO finale._

 _Thank you again! Until next time xoxox_


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